Resurrection Men (2002) (9 page)

“Done a runner,” Hynds confirmed. “So what do we do now?”

“We could charge him with possession of illegal videos.”

“We could,” Hynds acknowledged. He glanced at his watch. “Or we could call it a day.”

Siobhan started climbing the narrow stairs. The sauna’s phone was ringing again. Ricky was about to answer, but thought better of it when he saw Siobhan.

“Who’s your boss?” she asked.

“Solicitor’s on his way,” Ricky told her.

“Good,” she said, making for the exit. “I hope he charges through the nose.”

The Resurrection Men had moved from the bar to the break-out area, and from alcohol to soft drinks. A lot of the probationers at Tulliallan would be staying through the weekend, but those who were allowed would be heading home. Jazz McCullough and Allan Ward had left already, Ward complaining of the long drive ahead. The others were trying to rouse themselves, or maybe it was that there was nothing about the weekend that they couldn’t live without. The break-out area was an open lounge of leather chairs and sofas, just outside the lecture theater. Rebus had known men get too comfortable there and end up falling asleep, waking stiffly next morning.

“Got plans, John?” Francis Gray asked.

Rebus shrugged. Jean was off to a family wedding south of the border. She’d asked if he wanted to go, but he’d declined.

“How about you?” he asked.

“I’ve been away five days. Pound to a penny things have started to break, drip or leak.”

“You’re a bit of a DIY man then?”

“Christ, no. Why do you think things go wrong in the first place?”

There was tired laughter at this. Five days they’d been at Tulliallan. They felt like they knew each other.

“Suppose I’ll go watch my team tomorrow,” Tam Barclay said.

“Who’s that? Falkirk?”

Barclay nodded.

“Need to get yourself a proper grown-up team,” Gray commented.

“Would that be one from Glasgow, Francis?”

“Where else?”

Rebus got to his feet. “Well, I’ll see you all first thing Monday morning . . .”

“Unless we see you first,” Gray answered with a wink.

Rebus went to his room to pack a few things. The room itself was a comfortable box with en suite bathroom, better than many a hotel he’d stayed in. Only the CID were assured single rooms. A lot of probationers were doubling up, such were their numbers. Rebus’s mobile was where he’d left it, charging at one of the wall sockets. He poured himself a small Laphroaig from his secret stash and switched on the radio, tuning it to some station with pulsing dance music.

Then he picked up his mobile and punched in some numbers.

“It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How come I haven’t heard from you?” He listened as the person at the other end complained about the lateness of the hour. When Rebus said nothing to this, the person then asked where he was.

“In my room. That’s just the radio you can hear. When do we get to meet?”

“Monday,” the voice said.

“Where and how?”

“Leave that to me. Any luck so far?”

“That’s not what I want to talk about.”

There was silence on the line. Then: “Monday.” And this time the phone’s backlit screen told him the connection had ended. He retuned the radio, switched it off, making sure the alarm function wasn’t set. He had his bag open, but suddenly wondered what the rush was. There was nothing awaiting him in Edinburgh but an empty flat. He picked up his going-away present from Jean—a portable CD player. She’d added some CDs, too: Steely Dan, Morphine, Neil Young . . . He’d brought a few others: Van Morrison, John Martyn. He fixed the headphones on and pushed the START button. The swelling opening of “Solid Air” filled his head, pushing out everything else. He leaned back against the pillow. Decided the song was definitely on the shortlist for his funeral.

Knew he should write the shortlist down. After all, you never could tell.

Siobhan answered her door. It was late, but she was expecting company. Eric Bain always called first, to make sure it was all right. It usually was. Bain worked at Police HQ, the “Big House.” He specialized in computer crime. The two had become good friends — nothing more than that. They talked on the phone; sometimes ended up at one another’s flat, sharing late-night milky coffee and stories.

“You’re out,” Bain called through from the kitchen. Out of decaf, he meant. Siobhan was back in the living room, putting some music on: Oldsolar, a recent purchase — good late-night music.

“Middle cupboard, top shelf,” she called.

“Got it.”

Eric — the officers at Fettes called him “Brains” — had told Siobhan early on that his favorite film was
When Harry Met Sally.
Letting her know where he stood, and that if she wanted things to go any further, the first move would have to come from her.

Of course, none of their colleagues believed it. Eric’s car had been spotted parked outside at midnight, and next morning both police stations had been buzzing. It didn’t bother her, didn’t seem to bother Eric. He was coming into the living room now, carrying a tray containing cafetière, a jug of steamed milk, two mugs. He set it down on her coffee table, next to some notes she’d been writing.

“Been busy?” he asked.

“Just the usual.” She noticed the grin on his face. “What is it?”

He shook his head, but she dug her pen into his ribs.

“It’s your cupboards,” he confessed.

“My what?”

“Your cupboards. All the tins and jars . . .”

“Yes?”

“They’re arranged with the labels facing out.”

“So?”

“It just spooks me, that’s all.” He wandered over to her CD rack, pulled a disc out at random, opened its case. “See?”

“What?”

“You put your CDs back in the case so they’re the right way up.” He snapped the case shut, opened another.

“It makes them easier to read,” Siobhan said.

“Not many people do it.”

“I’m not like other people.”

“That’s right.” He kneeled in front of the tray, pushed down on the cafetière’s plunger. “You’re more organized.”

“That’s right.”

“A lot more organized.”

She nodded, then jabbed him with her pen again. He chuckled, poured milk into her mug.

“Just an observation,” he said, adding coffee to both mugs, handing hers over.

“I get enough grief at the office, Mr. Bain,” Siobhan told him.

“You working this weekend?”

“No.”

“Got plans?” He slurped from his mug, angled his head to read her notes. “You were at the Paradiso?”

A little vertical frown appeared between her eyes. “You know the place?”

“Only by reputation. It changed hands about six months back.”

“Did it?”

“Used to be owned by Tojo McNair. He has a couple of the bars down Leith.”

“Salubrious establishments, no doubt.”

“Sticky carpets and weak beer. What was the Paradiso like?”

She considered the question. “Not as seedy as I’d expected.”

“Better than having the girls walking the streets?”

She thought this over, too, before nodding agreement. There was a plan afoot to zone off part of Leith, turn it into a safe area for streetwalkers. But the first choice had been an industrial estate, badly lit and the scene of an attack a few years before. So now it was back to the drawing board . . .

Siobhan tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa; Eric slumped in the chair opposite.

“Who’s on the hi-fi?” he asked.

She ignored this and asked her own question instead. “Who owns the Paradiso nowadays?”

“Well . . . that all depends.”

“On what?”

He patted the side of his nose with his index finger.

“Do I have to thrash an answer out of you?” Siobhan asked, smiling above the rim of her mug.

“I bet you’d do it, too.” But he still wasn’t telling.

“I thought we were friends.”

“We are.”

“No point coming round here if you don’t want to talk.”

He sighed, sipped some coffee, leaving a milky residue along his top lip. “You know Big Ger Cafferty?” he said. The question was entirely rhetorical. “Word is, if you burrow deep enough, it’s his name you’ll find.”

Siobhan sat forward. “Cafferty?”

“He’s not exactly advertising the fact, and he never goes near the place.”

“How do you know?”

Bain wriggled in his chair, not at all comfortable with this conversation. “I’ve been doing some work for the SDEA.”

“You mean Claverhouse?”

Bain nodded. “It’s hush-hush. If he finds out I’ve been blabbing . . .”

“They’re after Cafferty again?”

“Can we drop it, please? I only have to get through this one job, then I’m off to the Forensic Computer Branch. Did you know their workload’s increasing twenty percent every three months?”

Siobhan was on her feet, walking over to the window. The shutters were closed, but she stood there as though staring at some startling new vista. “Whose workload? The SDEA?”

“The FCB — you’re not listening . . .”

“Cafferty?” she said, almost to herself.

Cafferty owned the Paradiso . . . Edward Marber had frequented the place . . . And there was a story that Marber had been cheating his clients . . .

“I was supposed to interview him today,” she said quietly.

“Who?”

She turned her head towards Bain; it was as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Cafferty,” she told him.

“What for?”

She didn’t hear him. “He was across in Glasgow . . . due back tonight.” She checked her watch.

“It’ll wait till Monday,” Bain said.

She nodded agreement. Yes, it could wait. Maybe if she could gather a bit more ammo first.

“Okay,” Bain said. “So sit down again and relax.”

She slapped a hand against her thigh. “How can I relax?”

“It’s easy. All you do is sit yourself down, take a few deep breaths and start telling me a story.”

She looked at him. “What sort of story?”

“The story of why it is that you’re suddenly so interested in Morris Gerald Cafferty . . .”

Siobhan backed away from the window, sat down again and took a few deep breaths. Then she reached down and picked her phone up off the floor. “There’s just one thing I have to do first . . .”

Bain rolled his eyes. But then Siobhan’s call was answered and he broke into a smile.

She was ordering pizza.

6

O
n Monday morning, Rebus was back at Tulliallan in time for breakfast. He’d spent most of Saturday in the Oxford Bar, passing time first with one set of drinkers, then with another. Finally, he’d headed back to his flat and fallen asleep in the chair, waking at midnight with a raging thirst and a thumping head. He’d not been able to get back to sleep until dawn, meaning he didn’t wake until midday on Sunday. A visit to the laundrette had filled in the afternoon, and he’d gone back to the Ox in the evening.

All in all, then, not a bad weekend.

At least he wasn’t having the blackouts anymore. He could remember the conversations he’d had in the Ox, the jokes he’d been told, the TV shows playing in the background. At the start of the Marber inquiry, he’d been at a low ebb, the past seeming to suffocate him just as surely as the present. Memories of his marriage and the day he had moved into the Arden Street flat with his young wife. That first night, he’d watched from the window as a middle-aged drunk across the street leaned for all his life against a lamppost, struggling for balance, seemingly asleep though standing. Rebus had felt an affection for the man; he’d felt affection for most things back then, newly married and with a first-time mortgage, Rhona talking about kids . . .

And then, a week or two before the tea-throwing incident, Rebus himself had become that man: middle-aged and clutching at the selfsame lamppost, struggling to focus, the crossing of the street an impossible proposition. He’d been due at Jean’s for dinner, but had got comfortable at the Ox, slipping outside to phone her with some lie. He’d probably walked back to Arden Street, couldn’t recall his journey. Hanging on to that lamppost and laughing at the memory of the man. When a neighbor had tried to help, Rebus had gripped the lamppost all the harder, crying out that he was useless, only good for sitting at a desk, making phone calls.

He hadn’t been able to look the neighbor in the face since . . .

After breakfast, he stepped outside for a cigarette and found a commotion on the parade ground. A lot of the probationers were out there. The CID intake were halfway through their five-week induction. As part of the training, they had to raise money for charity, and one of them had promised a parachute jump into the parade ground at 0915. There was a big letter X marking the spot. It was made from two lengths of shiny red material, weighted down with stones. A few of the probationers were squinting skywards, hands shading their eyes.

“Maybe got RAF Leuchars to help out,” one of them was suggesting.

Rebus stood with his hands in his pockets. He’d signed a sponsorship form, putting himself down for a five-quid donation should the jump succeed. A rumor was going around that a Land Rover with armed forces plates was parked in the driveway. Two men in light-gray uniforms could be seen at one of the windows in the building which fronted the parade ground.

“Sir,” one of the probationers said, making to pass Rebus. They usually did that, part of the training. You could get half a dozen of them in the corridors, all going “Sir.” He tried to ignore it. A door was opening, all eyes turning towards it. A young man emerged, wearing a one-piece flight suit, what looked like a parachute harness clamped around his chest. He was carrying a metal-framed chair. He nodded and beamed smiles at the crowd, who watched in silence as he made his way towards the X, planting the chair down firmly in its center. Rebus blew out air through his mouth, shaking his head slowly at the knowledge of what was to come. The CID recruit climbed onto the chair, crouched and placed his hands together, as if readying to dive into a pool. And then he jumped. Dust kicked up as he hit the ground. He stood up straight, opened his arms wide as if to accept the acclaim of his audience. There was some muttering, confused looks. The recruit picked up the chair. Behind their window, the RAF officers were smiling.

“What was that?” someone asked in disbelief.

“That, son, was a parachute jump,” Rebus said, his admiration tempered only by the knowledge that he’d just lost a fiver. He recalled that when he’d been going through his CID training, he’d raised money by taking part in an all-day relay attempt on the assault course. These days, he’d be lucky if he could walk it once through . . .

Back in the syndicate room, he announced that the jump had been successful. There were frowns and shrugs. Jazz McCullough, who had been made senior investigating officer, was talking to Francis Gray. Tam Barclay and Allan Ward were busy compiling the filing system. Stu Sutherland was explaining the structure of the investigation to a twitchy-looking DCI Tennant. Rebus sat down and pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. He worked for a solid half hour, glancing up every now and then to see if Gray had any message for him. When a break was announced, Rebus slipped a sheet of paper from his pocket and added it to the pile. With a cup of tea in his hand, he asked McCullough if he fancied swapping jobs.

“Fresh perspective and all that,” he explained. McCullough agreed with a nod, went and sat down in front of the papers. Gray had just finished a short conversation with Tennant.

“He looks antsy,” Rebus commented.

“The brass are in the house,” Gray explained.

“What sort of brass?”

“Chief constables. Half a dozen of them, here for some meeting or other. I doubt they’ll be bothering us, but Archie isn’t so sure.”

“He doesn’t want them meeting the remedial class?”

“Something like that,” Gray offered with a wink.

Just then, McCullough called out Rebus’s name. Rebus walked over to the table. McCullough was holding the sheet of paper. Rebus made a show of reading it.

“Christ, that had clean escaped me,” he said, hoping he sounded surprised. Gray was at his shoulder.

“What is it?”

Rebus turned his head, fixing Gray’s eyes with his own. “Jazz has just dug this up. Two officers from Glasgow visited Edinburgh, looking for one of Rico’s associates, a guy called Dickie Diamond.”

“So?” This from Tennant, who had joined the group.

“I was their liaison, that’s all.”

Tennant read the sheet quickly. “They don’t seem too enamored.”

“Covering their arses,” Rebus stated. “Now that I remember, they spent the whole time in the boozer.”

Tennant was looking at him. “This is you just remembering?”

Rebus nodded. Tennant kept staring, but Rebus wasn’t offering anything more.

“Who is this Dickie Diamond?” McCullough asked.

“He was a local small-timer,” Rebus said. “I barely knew him.”

“Past tense?”

“He could still be on the scene for all I know.”

“Was he a suspect?” McCullough asked.

Gray turned to the room. “Anyone turned up a Richard Diamond?” There were shrugs, shakes of the head.

Tennant nodded towards the paperwork in front of McCullough. “Nothing in there about him?”

“Not that I’ve found.”

“Well, there must be something in the files somewhere.” Tennant was talking to the room now. “And if it had been correctly indexed in the first place, it would be right next to this report. As it is, we’d better flag the name and keep looking.”

There were murmurs of “Yes, sir.” Francis Gray added the name to the marker board.

“Any chance your mates in Lothian and Borders could fill us in on this character?” Allan Ward asked, looking for a shortcut.

“No harm in asking,” Rebus told him. “Why don’t you get on the phone?”

Ward frowned. “It’s your patch,” he informed Rebus.

“It’s also Stu’s patch,” Rebus reminded him. Ward glanced towards Stu Sutherland. “But one of the skills we need to learn in an inquiry is transregional cooperation.” It was one of Tennant’s own phrases, which was probably why the DCI made noises of agreement.

Ward looked frustrated by this turn of events. “Fine,” he grunted. “Give me the number.”

Rebus looked to Stu Sutherland. “Do the honors, will you, Stu?”

“Be my pleasure.”

There was a knock at the door, causing Tennant to freeze. But when it opened a couple of inches, Andrea Thomson, rather than the feared posse of chief constables, was standing there. Tennant waved for her to enter.

“It’s just that I’m supposed to be seeing DI Rebus this afternoon, but something else has come up.”

Result!
Rebus was thinking.

“So I wondered if you could maybe spare him this morning instead . . .”

She was uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the walk down the corridor, and Rebus gave up trying. But when they got to her door, she hesitated.

“You go in,” she told him. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Rebus looked at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. When he reached out to the door handle, she turned and started walking away. Watching her, Rebus opened the door. He sensed movement from the corner of his eye. Seated in Andrea Thomson’s chair was someone he’d been wanting to see. He entered the room, quickly closing the door.

“Clever,” he admitted. “How much does she know?”

“Andrea will keep her mouth shut,” the man said. Then he reached out a hand for Rebus to shake. “How have you been, John?”

Rebus took the hand, returned its grip, then sat down. “Fine, sir,” he said. He was seated opposite his own chief constable, Sir David Strathern.

“Now then,” the chief constable said, getting comfortable again, “what seems to be the problem, John . . . ?”

A little over two weeks had passed since their first meeting. Rebus had been working in St. Leonard’s when a call had come through from the Big House — could Rebus nip across the road to the Blonde restaurant?

“What for?” he’d asked.

“You’ll find out.”

But as Rebus had made to cross the road, gripping his jacket shut against the fierce breeze, a car horn had sounded. The car was parked on the corner of Rankeillor Street, and a hand was waving from its window. He recognized the figure in the driver’s seat, even without the customary uniform: Sir David Strathern. The pair had met in the past at official functions only, and infrequently at that. Rebus wasn’t one for the sportsmen’s dinners, the boxing bouts with cigars. And he’d never found himself on a platform being given some award for gallantry or good conduct. It didn’t matter. Sir David seemed to know
him.

It wasn’t an official car: black, gleaming Rover — almost certainly the chief constable’s own. There was a chamois cloth on the passenger-side floor, magazines and a shopping bag on the backseat. As Rebus closed the door, the car pulled away.

“Sorry about the subterfuge,” Strathern said with a smile. The action creased the lines around his eyes. He was in his late fifties, not that much older than Rebus. But he was the boss, the chief, the big stick. And Rebus was still wondering what the hell he was doing here. Strathern was dressed in gray casual trousers and a dark crewneck jumper. Mufti it might be, but he wore it like a uniform. His hair was silver, neatly clipped above his ears, the large bald spot prominent only when he turned his head to check for traffic at the next junction.

“You’re not offering me lunch then?” Rebus guessed.

The smile widened. “Too close to St. Leonard’s. Didn’t want anyone seeing us together.”

“Am I not good enough for you, sir?”

Strathern glanced in Rebus’s direction. “It’s a good act,” he commented, “but then you’ve spent years perfecting it, haven’t you?”

“What act is that, sir?”

“The wisecracks, that hint of insubordination. Your way of coping with a situation until you’ve had a chance to digest it.”

“Is that right, sir?”

“Don’t worry, John. For what I’m about to ask you to do, insubordination is a prerequisite.”

Which left Rebus more baffled than ever.

Strathern had driven them to a pub on the southern outskirts of the city. It was close to the crematorium and got a lot of business from funeral meals, which meant it wasn’t quite so popular with anyone else. Their corner of the bar was quiet. Strathern ordered sandwiches and halves of IPA, then attempted some conversation, as if this was a regular outing for the two of them.

“Are you not drinking?” Strathern asked at one point, noting Rebus’s still-full glass.

“I hardly touch the stuff,” Rebus told him.

Strathern looked at him. “That’s not exactly been your reputation.”

“Maybe you’ve been misinformed, sir.”

“I don’t think so. My sources are usually impeccable.”

There was little Rebus could say to this, though he did wonder who the Chief had been talking to. Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell, perhaps, who disliked Rebus intensely, or Carswell’s acolyte, DI Derek Linford. Neither would have painted Rebus in anything but the darkest shades.

“With respect, sir,” Rebus said, sitting back, food and drink untouched, “we can skip the foreplay if you like.”

He then watched his chief constable struggle to contain the anger mounting within him.

“John,” Strathern said at last, “I came to you today to ask a favor.”

“One which requires a certain level of insubordination.”

The chief constable nodded slowly. “I want you to get yourself kicked off a case.”

“The Marber case?” Rebus’s eyes narrowed.

“The case itself has nothing to do with it,” Strathern said, sensing Rebus’s suspicion.

“But you want me off it all the same?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Without thinking, Rebus had raised the flat half-pint of beer to his lips.

“Because I want you somewhere else. Tulliallan, to be precise. There’s a rehab course about to start there.”

“And I’ll need rehab because I’ve been kicked off a case?”

“I think DCS Templer will demand it.”

“She knows about this?”

“She’ll agree to it when I tell her.”

“Who else knows?”

“Nobody. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think you’re asking me to go undercover. I don’t know why yet, and I don’t know that I’ll do it, but that’s the feeling I get.”

“And?”

“And there are people at Fettes who don’t like me. I wouldn’t like to think that they’d . . .”